Capitol Gains In Running

One of the biggest perks of serving in Congress, at least for its 75 or so members who run regularly, has to be the convenient access it provides to the promenades of the National Mall. The park's flat, tree-lined, gravel-covered footpaths are easy on muscles and joints, and the popular five-mile loop that stretches from Capitol Hill to the Lincoln Memorial offers plenty of scenic distractions. Best of all, from most points along the route, a senator or representative can scoot back to his office in less time than it takes Bill O'Reilly to form an opinion-which becomes especially helpful when a workout has to be cut short in order to participate in a surprise vote.

In nearly three decades in the Senate, Indiana Republican Dick Lugar, the 72-year-old dean of the unofficial Congressional Runners Caucus, has found himself in such predicaments more than once. "I'd be running with a group from our office, and someone with a cell phone gets word there's a roll call, totally unexpected," he says. "This means you've got to run fast, because you only have 15 minutes to make the vote." To buy time, Lugar used to head up the back stairway of the Senate, get a page's attention, and-still in his shorts-enter his vote through a cracked-open door. A few years ago, he inherited an extra hideaway office on the Capitol's third floor. The space already had a shower, so naturally he installed a treadmill. Now Lugar tunes into a live feed of floor proceedings while he puts in his indoor miles, allowing him to avoid the mad dashes to the chamber. "One of the benefits of seniority," he says.

Like their peers in other fields, the legislator-runners would rather squeeze in a short run than no run at all, and for many of the same reasons-for the cardiovascular gains, for the endorphin fix, for the respite from the static of their routine. But these elected officials, it seems, also owe their dedication to a more grandiose imperative. They feel their running is good for the country.

"I can tell you this," says Representative Brian Baird, a third-term Democrat from Washington State, "every one of us who exercises regularly would say we do our jobs better because we take this time out." As it happens, they may just be right.

It's no coincidence that some of the celebrated attributes of serious runners-drive, focus, and uncanny sangfroid-happen to be what we most prize in our political leaders. And given how prominently the sport figures into the language of campaigns-hopefuls run for office, chasing voters on the trail throughout the race-it also makes sense that runners would prove adept at getting elected. Long days spent shaking hands and coming up with pithy sound bites, after all, require substantial stamina. Self-discipline helps them stay on-message and avoid costly gaffes. (Apparently this did not apply to occasional-runner Dan Quayle.) But because people drawn to seek office are disproportionately hard-working and intense to begin with, the standard benefits of running are less valuable to a candidate than the more subtle, career-specific advantages it provides.

"I'm not sure there are a lot of candidates who aren't type A personalities, but maybe the runners are even more type A-they're type double A," says Carter Eskew, a Democratic consultant and self-diagnosed running addict (average pace: 8:30; pairs of running shoes: seven). The way he sees it, the real boost candidates get from running comes every time it disconnects them, even briefly, from the pressures of stumping for votes and the demands of their Blackberry-wielding staffs. Mirroring improvements in the palatability of energy bars, that edge has increased dramatically in recent years. "Candidates are constantly being bombarded with people and decisions," Eskew says. "With the Internet, there's instantaneous news, and in that sense, the difference between campaigning now and a decade ago is exponential. Running for office has become more frenetic, and running, as exercise, has become all the more important and powerful for those who do it. It allows them to step out of that and into something more contemplative and reflective."

Of course, it also burns calories, which can come in handy for a politician slogging through the pancake breakfasts, chili feeds, and fundraising dinners that fill today's endless election cycles. "The amount of food you can consume is frightening," Eskew says. "It's everywhere." (Baird, for one, says he gains up to 10 pounds during the last weeks of a race.) As Al Gore's campaign in the 2000 presidential contest might suggest, the deleterious consequences of a little added weight may not be limited to its unflattering on-camera manifestations. During the primaries, Buff Gore-the Gore who had run the Marine Corps Marathon and had just climbed Mt. Rainier with his son-outmaneuvered Bill Bradley, whose profusion of chins made him look more like a couch potato than an NBA hall-of-famer. But as the vice president's campaign schedule impinged on his workouts during the general election, he morphed into Somewhat-Puffy Gore. Meanwhile, George W. Bush was reportedly clocking 7:30 miles, a piece of news that Eskew, then toiling as a Gore aide, greeted with grudging respect and perhaps a hint of trepidation as well. Along with whatever internal edge it may have brought him, President Bush's running has undeniably been a boon for his image. He's sought to maximize that dynamic throughout his political career. Video of Bush jogging, displaying the candidate's grit, featured prominently in one of the ads aired for his unsuccessful 1978 congressional campaign. His 100 Degree Club, the designation given to those who've managed to keep up with him during his jaunts at his ranch in Crawford, Texas, has fed the macho, regular-guy symbolism of his chosen presidential retreat. Of course, the running and politics dichotomy can cut both ways. During this election, Bush has found the proverbial shoe on the other foot. Since February, a grassroots group called Running for Change has been steadily assembling a national constituency of anti-Bush runners, raising money, and creating visibility at races with their Coolmax "Run Against Bush" T-shirts.

But whether a group of voters uses running to oppose a candidate, or a candidate uses running to his advantage, running imagery can be a powerful campaign tool. Senator John Edwards tapped into it during this year's primaries with an ad that listed the North Carolina Democrat's history of exceeding expectations against a backdrop of him pounding out his five-mile constitutional. Lugar has also cut ads showing him running, as have Representative George Nethercutt, a Republican from Washington who's making a bid for the Senate this year, and Representative Earl Blumenauer, an Oregon Democrat whose 30 marathon finishes must qualify him for most blistered congressman. It's easy to understand the message all of those candidates were hoping to send.

"In a game where gestures mean quite a bit-kissing babies and the like-running shows a lot about a politician, says Democratic National Committee Communications Director Jano Cabrera, who worked on Gore's campaign. "The very act is one of determination. And that's a quality you look for in a leader. Running says that person is focused on an objective, and has the discipline, both physically and mentally, to get it done."

Once elected, every senator and congressman who runs becomes part of what might be thought of as a rarefied if rather loosely organized running club, complete with the requisite quirky charters and training-style subgroups. South Dakota Democrat Tom Daschle, the Senate minority leader, gets up at 5 a.m. to grind out his miles, while Representative Zach Wamp, a Tennessee Republican, is an afternoon runner who mixes his jogs with other sports. Senate Majority Leader Bill Frist is an avid distance runner who once completed two marathons in 13 days. Montana Democratic Senator Max Baucus takes things even farther. In addition to completing seven marathons, he's run the John F. Kennedy 50-Mile in western Maryland, and had planned on running the Western States 100-Miler this summer when a procedure to correct an irregular heartbeat scuttled his training. Representative Jim Ryun, known to Kansans as the Republican congressman from the 2nd District and to runners as a former world record miler, remains fixated on speed.

Degrees of competitiveness vary as well. There are the reliably competitive, like Dick Lugar, who has taken part in all 23 runnings of the Capital Challenge-a three-mile road race contested each May by teams captained by members of the various branches of government or the Washington press corps-and takes great pride in his team's consistent podium finishes. There are the extremely competitive, such as Senator John Ensign, a fleet Republican from Nevada who pushed Wamp so hard during their short-lived running partnership that the congressman developed bone spurs in his left heel. And then there are the frighteningly competitive, a category embodied by Representative Bart Gordon, Democrat from Tennessee and the undefeated Fastest Member of Congress, who said after defending his Capital Challenge title this year with an 18:22, "You've got to be mentally prepared to prefer dying of the pain rather than losing." At this year's Challenge, the House and the Senate combined to enter 27 squads. As usual, awards were broken down by chamber, age group, and gender; there were also citations for the best and worst of the invariably hokey team names. (Kay Bailey Hutchison won the Female Senator category, in which she was also the only competitor. In an obvious injustice, however, the Texas Republican's team moniker, "Kay-nt Be Stopped," was denied the honor it so obviously deserved.) "I think everybody who does it feels camaraderie about participating and finishing," says Gordon. "It's one of the few bipartisan activities we have that brings people together."

Were Blumenauer to have his way, in fact, entire subcommittee hearings might take place in motion. "I am convinced America would be a better place if every member of Congress had what I call a 'meeting on the move' twice a week instead of coffee or lunch or a beer," he says. "There are no interruptions, you think more clearly, and you're more efficient." When not running with staffers, constituents, think-tank wonks, or reporters, Blumenauer carries along a tape recorder and engages in some productive multitasking. "If he's writing a speech, he'll outline the themes, or maybe dictate the whole thing verbatim. Then he might draft some letters," says Blumenauer's press secretary, Kathie Eastman. "The tapes are full of him talking, and heavy breathing. It's sort of an initiation for our interns-we'll give them a tape he's done while running and see if they can transcribe it." Blumenauer's initial response to Runner's World's interview request came via such a recording, which is how we know his personal best for the marathon is 3:23, and his personal worst is 172 hours, 15 minutes, an achievement he claimed when he pulled up lame in the 1995 Portland Marathon, then returned a week later to complete the race.

So that's it, the solution to the country's legislative differences: Just outfit every officeholder on the Hill with a pair of made-in-the-USA New Balances, throw together some relays, and sit back while petty political gamesmanship gives way to blissful pursuit of the greater good? Well, no. Running may give members of opposing parties a venue for socializing, but it's not going to prompt them to drop their deeply held disagreements. Even if they paired up for runs every day for a year, a Blumenauer-Ryun Act on stem-cell research wouldn't be in the offing.

But while running may fail to bridge ideological differences, it can still play a role in reducing partisan rancor. After reviewing a roster of the runners in Congress, Jennifer Duffy, who tracks the Senate for the Cook Report, a well-respected political tip sheet, noted that "Most of the people on the list are pretty calm," she says. "They're not known for flying off the handle, and they deal with pressure well." That unflappability does a lot more than qualify the runners in Congress for congeniality prizes. Back when senators were wearing togas and orating in Latin, Emperor Justinian noted, "Keep cool and you will command everyone." And in the current political environment-where name-calling and finger-pointing often supplant polite deliberation, and a red-faced filibuster is just as common as a thoughtful compromise-it may be the factor that most makes runners better leaders.

"Our jobs are filled with passion, and the debates we have could bring you to fisticuffs," Wamp says. "Running for me is a way to keep my temperament in check. I am much slower to anger or conflict. I'm more deliberate. When I come back from a run, take a shower, and go to the floor, I find that I don't rush to judgment. That's a huge benefit in this arena."

A Part of Hearst Digital Media
Runner's World participates in various affiliate marketing programs, which means we may get paid commissions on editorially chosen products purchased through our links to retailer sites.